of her
grace, her competence, her persuasiveness, that when she did he had
once found it hard to resist. But that day was past. Under his
admiration for her brains, and his esteem for her character, he had
felt, of late, a stealing boredom. She was too clever, too
efficient, too uniformly sagacious and serene. Perhaps his own
growing sense of power—professional and social—had secretly
undermined his awe of hers, made him feel himself first her equal,
then ever so little her superior. He began to detect something
obtuse in that unfaltering competence. And as his professional
authority grew he had become more jealous of interference with it.
His wife ought at least to have understood that! If her famous
tact were going to fail her, what would be left, he asked himself?
"Look here, Pauline, you know all this is useless. In professional
matters no one else can judge for me. I'm busy this afternoon; I'm
sure you are too—"
She settled more deeply into her armchair. "Never too busy for
you, Dexter."
"Thank you, dear. But the time I ask you to give me is outside of
business hours," he rejoined with a slight smile.
"Then I'm dismissed?" She smiled back. "I understand; you needn't
ring!" She rose with recovered serenity and laid a light hand on
his shoulder. "Sorry to have bothered you; I don't often, do I?
All I ask is that you should think over—"
He lifted the hand to his lips. "Of course, of course." Now that
she was going he could say it.
"I'm forgiven?"
He smiled: "You're forgiven;" and from the threshold she called,
almost gaily: "Don't forget tonight—Amalasuntha!"
His brow clouded as he returned to his chair; and oddly enough—he
was aware of the oddness—it was clouded not by the tiresome scene
he had been through, but by his wife's reminder. "Damn that
dinner," he swore to himself.
He turned to the telephone, unhooked it for the third time, and
called for the same number.
That evening, as he slipped the key into his front–door, Dexter
Manford felt the oppression of all that lay behind it. He never
entered his house without a slight consciousness of the importance
of the act—never completely took for granted the resounding
vestibule, the big hall with its marble staircase ascending to all
the light and warmth and luxury which skill could devise, money
buy, and Pauline's ingenuity combine in a harmonious whole. He had
not yet forgotten the day when, after one of his first legal
successes, he had installed a bathroom in his mother's house at
Delos, and all the neighbours had driven in from miles around to
see it.
But luxury, and above all comfort, had never weighed on him; he was
too busy to think much about them, and sure enough of himself and
his powers to accept them as his right. It was not the splendour
of his house that oppressed him but the sense of the corporative
bonds it imposed. It seemed part of an elaborate social and
domestic structure, put together with the baffling ingenuity of
certain bird's–nests of which he had seen the pictures. His own
career, Pauline's multiple activities, the problem of poor Arthur
Wyant, Nona, Jim, Lita Wyant, the Mahatma, the tiresome Grant
Lindons, the perennial and inevitable Amalasuntha, for whom the
house was being illuminated tonight—all were strands woven into
the very pile of the carpet he trod on his way up the stairs. As
he passed the dining–room he saw, through half–open doors, the
glitter of glass and silver, a shirt–sleeved man placing bowls of
roses down the long table, and Maisie Bruss, wan but undaunted,
dealing out dinner cards to Powder, the English butler.
VI
Pauline Manford sent a satisfied glance down the table.
It was on such occasions that she visibly reaped her reward. No
one else in New York had so accomplished a cook, such smoothly
running service, a dinner–table so softly yet brightly lit, or such
skill in grouping about it persons not only eminent in wealth or
fashion, but likely to find pleasure in each other's
grace, her competence, her persuasiveness, that when she did he had
once found it hard to resist. But that day was past. Under his
admiration for her brains, and his esteem for her character, he had
felt, of late, a stealing boredom. She was too clever, too
efficient, too uniformly sagacious and serene. Perhaps his own
growing sense of power—professional and social—had secretly
undermined his awe of hers, made him feel himself first her equal,
then ever so little her superior. He began to detect something
obtuse in that unfaltering competence. And as his professional
authority grew he had become more jealous of interference with it.
His wife ought at least to have understood that! If her famous
tact were going to fail her, what would be left, he asked himself?
"Look here, Pauline, you know all this is useless. In professional
matters no one else can judge for me. I'm busy this afternoon; I'm
sure you are too—"
She settled more deeply into her armchair. "Never too busy for
you, Dexter."
"Thank you, dear. But the time I ask you to give me is outside of
business hours," he rejoined with a slight smile.
"Then I'm dismissed?" She smiled back. "I understand; you needn't
ring!" She rose with recovered serenity and laid a light hand on
his shoulder. "Sorry to have bothered you; I don't often, do I?
All I ask is that you should think over—"
He lifted the hand to his lips. "Of course, of course." Now that
she was going he could say it.
"I'm forgiven?"
He smiled: "You're forgiven;" and from the threshold she called,
almost gaily: "Don't forget tonight—Amalasuntha!"
His brow clouded as he returned to his chair; and oddly enough—he
was aware of the oddness—it was clouded not by the tiresome scene
he had been through, but by his wife's reminder. "Damn that
dinner," he swore to himself.
He turned to the telephone, unhooked it for the third time, and
called for the same number.
That evening, as he slipped the key into his front–door, Dexter
Manford felt the oppression of all that lay behind it. He never
entered his house without a slight consciousness of the importance
of the act—never completely took for granted the resounding
vestibule, the big hall with its marble staircase ascending to all
the light and warmth and luxury which skill could devise, money
buy, and Pauline's ingenuity combine in a harmonious whole. He had
not yet forgotten the day when, after one of his first legal
successes, he had installed a bathroom in his mother's house at
Delos, and all the neighbours had driven in from miles around to
see it.
But luxury, and above all comfort, had never weighed on him; he was
too busy to think much about them, and sure enough of himself and
his powers to accept them as his right. It was not the splendour
of his house that oppressed him but the sense of the corporative
bonds it imposed. It seemed part of an elaborate social and
domestic structure, put together with the baffling ingenuity of
certain bird's–nests of which he had seen the pictures. His own
career, Pauline's multiple activities, the problem of poor Arthur
Wyant, Nona, Jim, Lita Wyant, the Mahatma, the tiresome Grant
Lindons, the perennial and inevitable Amalasuntha, for whom the
house was being illuminated tonight—all were strands woven into
the very pile of the carpet he trod on his way up the stairs. As
he passed the dining–room he saw, through half–open doors, the
glitter of glass and silver, a shirt–sleeved man placing bowls of
roses down the long table, and Maisie Bruss, wan but undaunted,
dealing out dinner cards to Powder, the English butler.
VI
Pauline Manford sent a satisfied glance down the table.
It was on such occasions that she visibly reaped her reward. No
one else in New York had so accomplished a cook, such smoothly
running service, a dinner–table so softly yet brightly lit, or such
skill in grouping about it persons not only eminent in wealth or
fashion, but likely to find pleasure in each other's
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